


Lull

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Communication, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:54:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>cmcross prompted herself and I with "Communication". Here is her Johnlock for the prompt: <a href="http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8709689/1/Lay-Me-Down-In-Lo-Debar">Lay Me Down (In Lo-Debar)</a>.</p><p>Mycroft Holmes is normally a very good communicator.</p><p>Rated G.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lull

"John," Mycroft said with a heavy sigh. 

"Please? For me? For your boyfriend?" John batted his eyelashes, watched Mycroft's silly attempt at denying him melt away. Mycroft was too flattered by the interest for him to be too upset.

"Okay."

John let the foreign words melt over him like a stream of water from the tap after a long day. He took in the cadence and the calm and the way he was pretty sure Mycroft was trying extra hard to enunciate and to sound sensual while he talked.

Finally, the string of words stopped, and John opened his eyes again. "Wow," John said.

"I suppose that's what I get for taking a call during our time together," admitted Mycroft, reaching out to take John's hand.

"What did you say?" asked John.

Mycroft chuckled. "That's for me to know," he said. His gaze lingered on John, and John knew it must have been something sentimental.

***

Mycroft started texting a lot more while he was dating John. John imagined he'd never had anyone to tell stupid, useless facts to before. But John didn't really mind; it made Mycroft seem all the more human.

_Met someone today who got married on the London Eye. I don't understand it. -MH_

_As an army doctor, do any seasickness remedies get your high approval? -MH_

_It appears my colleague came down with food poisoning yesterday. I lucked out by changing my order at the last second. Life is full of near-misses. -MH_

_There are approximately two-hundred and seventy-one million £5 notes in circulation. -MH_

_Sherlock once broke into the shop owned by a family friend so that he could prove a point about product placement. -MH_

_It's time for you to replace your razor. -MH_

***

After they began to live together, John started to get a little lonely at times. It was a big place, and while it felt welcoming with Mycroft around, it was less so when he wasn't. Mycroft began to leave post-it notes for John.

On the bedside table (1/2): **As you stretch and groan and pull faces in order to command the day ahead to pay heed to you, imagine that I am rising too. I open my eyes and sigh at the day, but when I turn and see you, I can't hide my adoration.**  

On the bedside table (2/2): **I really could endure the nuances of an unfamiliar mattress much more easily if you were available to help distract me from them.**

On the mirror: **Time for a new razor again, dear.**

In the kitchen (1/2): **Do you really need that much salt?**

In the kitchen (2/2): **Are you sure?**

On the bedside table (during a different trip): **" A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world." -Oscar Wilde**

By the sink: **Your solution helped immensely with my seasickness. I never told you. In order to repay you, I really should find a way to make your stomach flip, or at least to get you panting and sweating.**

In John's coat pocket: **I didn't want to go on this trip. This won't be an easy one, though I suppose they never are. I should be grateful for the difficulty because it means I'm of use. I'd rather it be easy, though. I'm as lazy as Sherlock says, John.**

In the tea tin: **Pity me, John. They never seem to have any decent tea where I'm going.**

On the tie John was intending to wear: **I deduced that you'd choose this one. You must call Thursday at half past 4 if you wish to find out why.**

On the window: **Meteor shower visible Saturday night.** A rough sketch of what must have been shooting stars and a telescope accompanied the words.

Hidden inside the battery compartment of the remote control:  **Boo!**

***

Mycroft, a bit red-faced but trying to maintain his dignity and not burst into laughter, continued to flap his arms like wings.

"I have no idea what that is," John admitted to the rest of their team.

Mycroft admitted afterward that charades was not his area. Pictionary, oddly enough, was.

***

"I didn't _want_ to be his mummy, John. Have to believe me. Nor his daddy," Mycroft sighed, letting his eyes drift closed as John stroked his hair. "I resented him. For that. Sometimes I still do." He opened his eyes again and raised an eyebrow slowly. "Wasn't his fault."

John eased the tumbler out of Mycroft's hand, kissing him on the cheek. "You were a good mum," he pointed out, laughing softly when Mycroft proceeded to try for a sloppy kiss. He wasn't particularly graceful.

"Siblings," John said, not trusting himself to form more of a thought, if he even could.

Mycroft snickered and said, "Harry. Sounds like a piece of work."

John grinned and snuggled closer. "Yeeeeaaah," he said with a shrug. He felt like that summed it up. Mycroft pressed their foreheads together, and John giggled.

***

John laughed as he poked through a few of the old boxes. "Look! Your school song book!" He pulled out the small book, carefully handing it over.

Mycroft brushed at the dusty book for a moment, just barely suppressing a sneeze. "Mm," he said, opening the book, gazing at old notes and lyrics as he flipped through a few of the pages.

"You've lingered too long on that one," John said. "Go on and sing it, then."

"I should think not!" Mycroft said, sounding scandalized.

"Well...I should think so," said John. He gestured to the attic. "It's just us, and I've seen you drunk and blubbering before."

"I, erm. I suppose you're right," Mycroft said sheepishly. "I was in choir as a boy, so I'm not sure why I'm so reluctant." He took a deep breath and began to sing. His voice was soft at first, a bit too soft. It shook slightly, to Mycroft's apparent knowledge and annoyance, but he gained more confidence by the time he started the second verse.

The silly school song sung, he made to close the book and return it to its box, but John took it back from him, opened it up, and said, "I want to hear more."

"John," Mycroft said in a weary tone.

"You have an enchanting voice, Mycroft," John said. "Throw a few more school songs my way, or else I'll ask you to woo me through song, and that would be too much for both of us, I fear."

"God help me," said Mycroft, frowning in disgust.

John knew that if he ever did ask, at this point, now he'd heard Mycroft sing already, Mycroft really would attempt to woo him. John had never been on this side of wooing before. He decided he hated the word "woo".

Lull, maybe. Mycroft could enchant him, could lull him into an even further state of Lovey Dovey. That was oddly okay to know, even if neither was keen to put that knowledge to the test.

***

To say John was concerned would be a bit of an understatement. Mycroft sometimes became stunned into silence, sometimes stumbled over what to say, sometimes said the wrong thing, but he usually communicated something, whether through his tone or his body language or his expression.

They were sitting across the table from each other, and Mycroft had his hand in his jacket pocket. He wasn't saying anything, and his expression made John feel almost like he should be frightened. He couldn't read Mycroft, and Mycroft almost always allowed himself to be read when it came to John. 

Suddenly, Mycroft seemed to come back to the present. He drew his hand out of the pocket, leaving whatever he'd had in there be.

John waited for words, but there weren't any. "You're worrying me," he finally admitted.

Mycroft sighed, looking slightly put-upon. He slowly reached into the pocket again, retrieving a small box. John understood without any comment from Mycroft. Mycroft slid the box across the table to John.

Mycroft still looked incredibly blank.

Reaching out, John picked up the box, opening it gingerly, finding his suspicions were correct.

He watched the object glimmer in the light as he picked it up, as he made eye-contact with his dear, as he slid it on. He closed the ring box decisively and shoved it back across the table.

Mycroft's expression slowly came back to life, like he'd shut off the power to his emotional computer and it all needed to warm up again.

"Thank you, John," he said, voice raw and uncomposed.

"You're...er...welcome," John said a bit awkwardly. He looked down at the ring on his finger again. "A perfect fit," he commented.

He'd been lulled by Mycroft again. He'd been sought out and soothed into inaction and, in the end, had been made to feel things he hadn't dared imagine.

"I'd like to think so," said Mycroft with his look of adoration, and it only took John a moment to get his meaning.


End file.
